Pit Stop in the Colovians
by sharoman polanski
Summary: Martin is whisked away to Cloud Ruler temple, and finds an unlikely friend in the old blade Jauffre. slight m/m Martin/Jauffre


The trip to Cloud Ruler Temple was an unwelcome development in Martin's rapidly changing life. The trek from the former city Kvatch left him exhausted enough from having to keep up with the hero's near-constant sprint. How could he even run for so long? Occasionally he would stop only to kill whatever fauna decided to chase after them, or get distracted and try to run after a deer with a knife. The Hero of Kvatch hardly spoke, and seemed to communicate only in gestures and shouting a couple of words in query. Martin got used to it; it was better to be led around by a madman than a cultist that razed a city to get to you.

By the time they reached Weynon Priory it had been ransacked, with the Mythic Dawn ready to finish what Dagon started. Jauffre ordered to ride to the temple immediately; on horseback, thankfully enough. They left without so much as a breather after the battle, setting out on the priory steeds. The hero still matched them on foot. Always. Fucking. Running.

Taking the Orange road tuned out to be a very uncomfortable choice. The air was thin in the colovian mountains, and the ride was bumpy and treacherous. Wolves attacked often, sending the horses panicking before the hero could dispatch them. The discomfort of riding had almost surpassed the discomfort of walking before they could even reach the halfway mark. One of the reasons for Martin's pain had surfaced late one afternoon, after a sparse lunch of foraged plants.

Martin excused himself from the travelling party, dismounting from his horse as gingerly as he could. He clenched every muscle he had before scurrying deep into the snowy brush. His robe was hiked up immediately, exposing pale, hairy legs that stung from the sudden exposure to the cold air. He barely managed to get into a squat before a steady trickle of liquid shit began squirting into the snow. Martin bit his lip, trying not to grunt and bring attention to himself, even though the sounds coming from his asshole were far louder than anything he could shout. He heard hoofbeats on the road nearby, and instinctively hunched down, trying to hide in the scrub. He tried to clench, to stop the flow of diarrhea, but he could feel the pressure of an oncoming turd push through his prostate, already threatening to bulge out of his pressure. It was huge – a hard-packed product of constipation and shitty food. Martin braced himself, his ass lifting slightly into the air as he began to push out this giant brown baby in his colon.

"Is anyone there?" Jauffre's voice sent a dagger of fear into his ass. Martin tried to make sure a hefty amount of shrubbery was between him and the old monk.

"I – I'm okay, Brother. Please, let me be; I'm not feeling well."

"Sir, are you injured?" Jauffre peered over; looking into martin's straining face, half-hidden in the sticks.

"No sir, I'm fine. Please—"Martin winced, his heart leaping as an audible squeak emitted from his rectum. "L-leave me alone!"

Jauffre's face reddened and he looked away from his emperor. "Forgive me, my lord."

Martin waited until he could no longer hear Jauffre's footsteps. He felt sweat begin to form on his brow, he body heating up from what he could only guess was embarrassment or… oh my. Martin grimaced at his surprise erection, poking out from under his bunched up robes. Did merely talking to Jauffre while try not to take a shit cause that? The soon-to-be Emperor of Tamriel tried his best to ignore his throbbing member, focusing instead on the matter at hand.

Relief washed over him as the massive shitlog crowned painfully for a moment before splattering to the bare ground. The backlog of feces it trapped in his colon washed out, his asshole making loud, popping sputters that echoed throughout the Colovian Mountains. Martin briefly thought about Jauffre and the hero of Kvatch hearing it, and it sent a surge of blood to his exposed cock. Martin blushed and palmed his erection, ashamed that thinking such thoughts would do that to his body. He began jacking off right there, crouched over his unending pile of excrement. Chunks of crap pressed against his prostate, and Martin found that by clenching just right it sent meager waves of pleasure straight to his cock. His opened anus squelched as he did, his bowels beginning to show signs of being empty at last. Martin never thought he'd think this, but he was almost disappointed. He ass felt empty, its contents strewn upon the snow covered ground.

The young Septim tried his damndest to finish himself as quickly as possible, replaying his encounter with Jauffre over in his head, imagining what would happen if he just let his bowels loose right in front of the monk, imagining the horrified face of a man who had respected him so much being forced to look at his filth. Precum leaked from his swollen head, but his balls would not nudge. Sweat dampened his face and pooled in the creases of his knees and armpits. The skunky smell of his own rancid shit could do little to satisfy Martin's shameful needs, but he knew who could.

"Brother Jauffre, could you come here for a moment?" He raised his voice enough that it began to ring through the mountains, and he heard the crunch of snow and cracking of dry, dead brush that announced the monk's return.

The Grandmaster of the Blades was blushing already, knowing full well what Martin was doing behind the bushes. "…What is it that you wish, my Lord?"

Martin stared at him for a moment, silently rubbing himself unbeknownst to the older man. "I want you," The heir began, "To clean me."

"_Pardon?_" Jauffre's offended grimace sent a surge of arousal through Martin's body.

"I want you down here and wiping my ass. _Now_." Martin took on a stern tone and stared him down. "I am your Emperor and you will do as I say."

Jauffre's look was equal parts hateful and confused. Swallowing his pride, he approached his to-be Emperor only to be hit by a wave of the most horrible, overpowering stench he had ever been unlucky enough to experience. The scent literally made him step back, feeling weak in the knees. Martin jacked off harder.

"Martin, what on Nirn are – oh gods." Jauffre glimpsed the Septim's hand rapidly stroking his royal cock during their painful exchange. Martin gritted his teeth, bucking into his hand.

"Relieve me." He held his ass up, showing off the drying shit spray smattering his cheeks, and the cold dribble of rancid liquid tracing down to his scrote.

Jauffre hesitated "But I haven't any—"

"Use your hands!"

The old monk closed his eyes and touched the Septim ass before him, his fingers already slick from touching smeared shit all around the loose whit pucker. Jauffre retched, trying to wipe away the feces as he heard Martin grunt appreciatively, his hand working overtime between his legs. The royal anus puckered, and sent out a squealing gout of flatulence right into the Blade's face.

Jauffre could take it no longer. His stomach lurched in protest, and his mouth followed suit, letting loose a fountain of bile to splash onto the Septim's back. Martin came as soon as he felt the hot splatter of vomitus, spurting the seed of the dragon into the soiled ground. Jauffre coughed up more chunks of half-digested trail rations onto his emperor's backside, sobbing at the injustice of it all. Martin stood and knocked the old blade right into his shitpile.

"I do hope you enjoyed that as much as I did," He said brightly, "Be a dear and bury all that, would you? Try not to get dysentery or anything."

Martin left, shot and puke staining his lower half and soaking into his robes. He wore it all like a badge of pride, and left Jauffre to anguish in his filth.


End file.
